


won't the poets laugh

by twatsworthy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Like, M/M, Sad, really sad, sorry - Freeform, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twatsworthy/pseuds/twatsworthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which grantaire survives the barricades in body but never could have done in mind</p>
            </blockquote>





	won't the poets laugh

**Author's Note:**

> sorry mum sorry god  
> ((slight suicide trigger warning))

It takes a year before you wonder amidst melancholia and the moronic drudge of breathing if when he bled, the guardsmen saw through catalytic eyes that they had destroyed the martyr of the devil and the convict of the angels; it takes a year before you dare to dream of those holy murderers in chains and shackled and screaming fits of waste and destitution; it takes a year before you dare to cite vengeance as the cause of the sobbing and crying and shrieking as Phoebe veils herself amongst her robes of nightly chastity and the Sun bequeaths her light to the early firmament.

It takes a year for your trembling moronic lips (of dust and stone and starlight and the whole empyrean horizon itself and they rage besides your beating flaming tongue) to excavate his name from beneath the mounds of desperation and disillusion; it takes a year for the artisan of debauchery to form the name of the sinful seraph so lucid in his chastity; it takes a year to think of the sporadic resplendence the anthropomorphic tenement to the downtrodden; to name is to bequeath and to bequeath is to bestow the power and the liberty and the deification; might not the naming bring back in the flesh that which had never been flesh; you think with the words and ribbons of alcohol and malignance; stone cannot die.

It takes a year to think; it takes a year for clarity to form in a mind which abhorred it for its rationalism; it takes a year to remember in the firelight how he shone – let not the goodness of the saints and the holiness of the martyrs be intertwined, let not this profligate of pandemonium be hailed as saintly for let it be known that he was not a saint; let borrowed tongues confess that you wish to be the flowers that now take root between his ribcage, the vines entwining around his skull; let the moronic poets note now the seeds of flesh that grow between his fragile marrow, for only the finest flowers must grow about him and perhaps in death you can join him as you never did in life; you envy the stars of the ground because they kiss the hollow of his skin in ways that your pitied warring lips had never dared.

It takes a year to realize that those holy freshened floral aberrations are far too pure for him to parade as his only medals for his tribulation; it takes a year for you to think upon the wasted limbs of flesh now turned to bone and fuel for poetry; it takes a year, but now you know that the darkness waits for you and that the space between his fingers formed by Time and Fate (those cruel seductresses that leer and shriek and lure) were meant for you not in flesh and blood and oxygen, but in bone and waste and death. It takes a year to know that such a purity so distorted in he the holy deviant and such a love so twisted in you the bloodied waters (or perhaps the bloodied knife) was meant only for the dust and air and world around; that such things could not be contained within the volatility of a single chapter under the sky.

It takes a year to realise that the ending came with the gunshots of those hellions in their celestial masquerades; it takes a year to recognize that only in death could you find what you could never ensnare in life.


End file.
